


HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LOSER

by wtvoc



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-07 19:15:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3180023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtvoc/pseuds/wtvoc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Mary Margaret has to remind Emma that it's Elsa's birthday, she also has to give Emma Elsa's new number. Only...Emma can't read the smudged writing on her palm and accidentally texts a total stranger. And then keeps texting the stranger. For months. Fic written for loveafterwar (i-know-how-you-kiss on tumblr) for her birthday. Part 1 is rated T; Part 2 is rated E.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LOSER**

Emma smiled, looking forward to the moment Elsa got her text. It was six a.m. East Coast time, which meant it was— she didn't even know, six hours ahead, maybe?— over in Norway. Her body was still East Coast, even if she was somewhere in Cold as Fuck, Middle America, chasing down a rat bastard who'd failed to make his court appearance over several years' worth of missed child support payments. Whatever, Emma knew Elsa was awake, probably burrowing under the covers and sleeping in. They may have grown apart over the years, but some things never change, and if there was one thing Emma knew about her old college roommate, it was that Elsa was the type to take her whole birthday off just so she could sleep all day and then stay out all night.

When Elsa didn't respond right away, she thought nothing of it. The day before, Mary Margaret had called, reminding her to call their old friend and wish her a happy birthday. It was moments like that that made Emma insanely glad Mary Margaret was such a mom type because otherwise, she would have totally forgotten. Also, she wouldn't have been able to do it anyway as she didn't have Elsa's number, which she told Mary Margaret, ignoring the deep, exasperated sigh her friend often gave her, but only because Mary Margaret was doing her such a solid. She had to scribble the number down on the palm of her hand while she was in the car, and that at least explained the weird response Emma got to her only  _slightly_ rude text message about ten minutes later.

_Who is this? My birthday isn't for another week, asshole._

What. The fuck. Ugh, that nine must've been a four. But hell, no reason to be such a dick about a wrong number! _Way_ too early to deal with jerk strangers. Emma frowned at her phone, her thumbs tapping away furiously with a passive-aggressive response.

**hey, sorry. wrong number, but you have a nice day. hope calling me that made you feel better.**

_It's bloody 3am okay_

3am? Where was this douche? Middle of the ocean? Oh. Hawaii, maybe.

**well, aloha friend. sorry about the number mix-up.**

_Is this not Will_

**nope, not will**

_Then I must apologize for the asshole comment_

**lol no worries, i'm the asshole who thought you were elsa**

_definitely not an elsa, but she sounds hot_

Emma smirked and shook her head. Men, honestly.

**okay then well... go back to sleep**

_Oh, I'm afraid I'm good and awake now. You may as well entertain me before I head down to catch the tide_

**sailor?**

_Well, yes. But I was referring to surfing_

Surfer, eh? Emma had to smile at that. Then she had to shake her head, because here she was, texting some random wrong number who was a surfer and probably British since he'd said “bloody.” She began to construct an image in her head of some pasty-ass Brit trying to navigate the Pacific Ocean, but all she could come up with was Mr. Bean wearing one of those old bathing costumes. The image was enough to make her laugh heartily and burrow a little deeper into her covers.

**so am I right about the hawaii thing**

_Indeed_

**stationed there?**

_I was, but I'm visiting an old friend_

**and surfing**

_Aye_

**i've never been**

There was no response text after that. Emma re-texted Elsa's birthday message, switching out the 9 for a 4, and the  _Thank you, darling. Lunch in a month when I visit?_ Made Emma sigh with relief. She confirmed the date and then went back to sleep.

Exactly one week later, Emma was sitting on her couch after work, nursing a beer and digging into a bag of semi-cold fries from Boston's local greasy diner while scrolling endlessly through Netflix. She was utterly bored but way too tired and lazy after a long day at work to do much of anything else. She had just decided to watch _Lilo & Stitch_ for the thousandth time when that jogged her memory about her encounter with the British surfer in Hawaii. She remembered... wasn't it Mr. Bean's birthday? She reached into her back pocket and took out her phone.

**HAPPY BIRTHDAY FOR REAL, LOSER**

Not even five minutes later, she got a response.

_Hahahaha You remembered! I'm touched._

**i just put on lilo and stitch and hawaii made me think of it**

_Ah, excellent choice_

**surfing to celebrate?**

_No, I am no longer in Maui._

**back home in england?**

_Was my Englishness that apparent, then?_

**americans don't generally use “bloody” unless they're pretentious or watch a lot of doctor who**

_Touche. Actually, I live in the US now, have since being discharged_

She decided it was better not to know where the guy was now because it seemed...too intimate, so she changed topics. For whatever reason, it was fun texting with a total stranger, and besides, what the hell else was she going to do, go out on a Wednesday night?

**i hope you're doing something fun for your birthday**

_I will in all likelihood finish my drink and go to bed soon. Early day tomorrow._

**that's...really pathetic, actually**

_Fine talk from someone watching lilo and stitch._

_Wait, you are an adult, aren't you?_

_Am I going to get arrested for texting with a teenaged boy?_

**lol i'm a grown-up, age-wise anyway**

_That's a relief._

**i don't feel like it most days, only when i'm paying bills or get called ma'am**

Emma winced a half-second after she hit “send.” She didn't mean to let on that she was a woman, but it was so comfortable texting Mr. Bean that it just kind of happened.

_I began to feel old when I stopped getting carded for buying alcohol, and that was years ago_

**i still get carded but i think that's just because they have to**

_Perhaps the cashier is hitting on you._

**god I hope not, now i'm gonna blush every time I buy my rolling rock**

_Love, I don't think I can text with someone who drinks that swill_

**hey hey hey do NOT insult my beer, it got me through some rough times in high school, okay**

_I went to an all-boys school, the only thing that got me through it relatively unscathed was sarcasm and my fists_

**well I had those things, too**

_I daresay we'd've made an excellent team_

**probably not, i was an asshole and a loner**

_Now, I highly doubt that. You do, after all, remember your friends' birthdays._

**actually I had to be reminded by my other friend, i'm a terrible person**

_But you remembered mine._

**eh, only because of lilo**

_Now the truth comes out_

_I should have seen this coming_

_First, you called me a loser_

_Then it turns out I wasn't even the right loser, just one of many_

_And now, you're drinking terrible American beer and watching excellent movies_

_I thought we had something special, love_

Emma chuckled then pulled her lip between her teeth. Why was it she never met funny men like this for real? Oh, right. Netflix and microwave popcorn on the couch after work. Blind date set-ups from her friends (mostly just Mary Margaret) got old years ago, and sometimes going out to bars to troll for possible sex nights was  _exhausting_ . She almost wished this Mr. Bean guy lived nearby so she could meet him.

What the hell was she thinking? Holy crap, life is  _not_ a movie, Emma. You do  _not_ meet guys in a cute way due to a texting snafu.

_...still there? That was a joke. I'll just go dunk my head in the toilet now._

**no no, just had to crack open another beer.**

_Oh, so I drive you to drink. What else is new. Sigh_

**you are ridiculous**

_I know it. Must be my old age, turning me into a right lunatic._

Her image of a surfing Mr. Bean in an old bathing costume suddenly got grey hair, and Emma started wondering at her own sanity.

_Right, I'm off to bed now. Good night, Lilo._

**i'm really more of a stitch. but happy birthday, old man.**

_Thank you._

The following night, he texted first:

_So, what's on the menu tonight? Budweiser and Beauty and the Beast?_

**pop tarts and pocahontas**

_Tomorrow, go for goldfish crackers and Finding Nemo_

**you're a sick man**

_Don't I know it_

_Do you only watch Disney movies on Netflix, then?_

**well, it was at the top of my recommended list, along with sons of anarchy and mean girls**

_I feel like that was a warning to me_

**how so?**

_That you are a dangerous woman_

**why, because i like men in leather and movies where women are in charge**

_And mischief, Stitch_

_I wear a leather jacket, I'll have you know_

Okay, she might need to re-think her Mr. Bean image. If he wore leather jackets, he was either indescribably hot or totally delusional. She wasn't sure which was worse.

**biker gang?**

_Pirate_ .

**pirates are hot**

_Don't you flirt with me, I like it far too well_

**if there was an eye-rolling emoji, i'd be using it right now**

_I find women who are exasperated with me to be extremely appealing_

**oh, you're one of those**

_Meaning?_

**you think you're all cute when you're being annoying**

_Some say dashing, even_

**no one says dashing**

_I do. To and about myself. Often._

She actually laughed out loud at that one. This guy, honestly.

**you're ridiculous**

_Aye, so you've said. Don't forget dashing._

**i'm never calling you that, ever**

_Challenge accepted, then._

**what challenge?**

_You'll call me dashing one day. And you'll mean it._

That sounded so confident that Emma was annoyed, but at the same time, a worrisome flutter started in her gut. This guy was charming as hell, and she had the notion that if they were sitting across from each other in some bar that she'd end up taking him home. Or, rather, following him back to his place. She didn't typically bring guys home. Hard to skip out after sex when it's your own house, and all.

_Sorry, did I lose you there?_

_**if you lost me i just wouldn't text you in the first place** _

_Granted._

**i'm just trying to decide on the best way to convey fond annoyance**

_I've found that selfies are an excellent way to show emotions_

That...was definitely too much. Emma didn't even send selfies to her friends, much less random guys she met. Especially random guys she'd  _never_ met. She didn't even know his name, and what the fuck was she even doing, holy  _crap_ .

The problem with her own self-recriminations was...it wasn't weird, not by a long shot. Was it that anonymity of the internet phenomenon, that being a faceless person behind a screen making her feel like she could say things she wouldn't normally say?

Emma wasn't sure. She wasn't this open with people on the internet, either. Something about this stranger, whose name or face she didn't even know, made her feel like she could be herself. The thing was that in life and in her work, Emma relied on her instincts; it was a survival mechanism she honed long ago, and she had gotten so good at trusting herself that it made her excel at her job.

None of the usual bells were going off with this guy. Was it because they'd never met, or some other reason?

Emma was just curious enough to find out. But not now, God.  _Way_ too soon.

So, she decided to do something she hadn't done in almost a decade: she decided to let her guard down with a man, but she told herself that it wasn't a big deal, that he was just another faceless person on the end of the impersonal electronic communication devices people surrounded themselves with nowadays, and there was no danger to herself in having a little fun by becoming friends through a completely random set of circumstances.

She picked up the remote and clicked on  _Finding Nemo_ , then picked up her phone.

**let's watch finding nemo right now. i'll wait for you to cue it up.**

His simple  _Okay_ got a big smile from her, and she settled back into the couch, her thumbs poised and ready to watch a movie with her... with the British surfer guy.

_Four months later_

“Seriously. Seriously? Emma!” David and Mary Margaret were standing in their own kitchen, staring at Emma in shock.

“What?” she mumbled, hastily shoving one of Mary Margaret's banana nut muffins into her mouth so she wouldn't have to explain. Problem was, the couple was on to her tricks and waited patiently for her to swallow the overlarge bite she'd taken.

“Explain.” David's hands were crossed and his eyes were closed; he looked for all the world like an irritated teacher, or maybe an older brother having caught his kid sister sneaking back into the house at an ungodly hour.

“David.”

“Emma. You're  _meeting_ him?”

Emma could feel the burn of embarrassment marring her cheeks, and it made her slightly defensive. Who the hell were they to judge? It's not like she was marrying the guy, for crying out loud.

The last four months had turned into a hilarious, private, and intimate relationship, and it wasn't even romantic or anything. Yeah, sure, there were comments, both flirtatious and outright outrageous at times, because Killian (his name, as she found out about three days after the  _Finding Nemo_ watch-a-long when he'd made fun of her for referring to herself in the third person and then went about a week doing it himself until she threatened to get a new number and not tell him what it was) turned out to be the kind of guy who liked to tease because he knew she wouldn't take offense at it. She called him on it often, but she also secretly loved how witty he was, how he was able to come up with some killer off-the-cuff responses to her surlier and more asshole comments. A lot of the time his words were harmless, but sometimes he'd say something just so...dirty that she grinned at the cleverness and  _obviousness_ of it all.

He was also a kind person, and she could tell he was a good friend. He talked about his buddy Will a lot, how he was constantly having to bail Will out of stupid situations, like the time Will lost all his clothes playing strip poker with a bunch of people after bingo night at the Elk's lodge ( **weren't they all old?** _I don't want to talk about it_ , he'd replied). He spoke warmly about his older brother Liam a lot. One day, he opened up about the worst decision of his life, getting involved with a married woman who died in a terrible accident. How he never got closure, and how he wasn't even allowed to attend her funeral because her husband knew who he was.

She in turn opened up to him, about her less-than-stellar childhood growing up in the system followed by beginning her adult life in the system. How she had given up a baby for adoption because she was a convicted felon fresh out of prison. How she saw the man who abandoned her in the face of every dirtbag she carted off to court, and how donating 10% of every single bounty to the local children's home in whatever town she was living in at the time only made her feel slightly better about things.

He asked her about her first concerts and first boyfriends, whether she preferred half-and-half or cream (neither, both agreed), whether she was able to go to Target without spending a hundred bucks.

She in turn asked about the navy, why he joined up in America rather than fighting for her majesty, whether he was a chucks and jeans or sweater vests and trousers kind of guy.

They pretty much talked about everything.

The funny thing about having a writing relationship with a person she had yet to meet was that it was oddly, oddly freeing. And satisfying. Emma found herself confessing things she never even realized she felt, much less dwelt on and bottled up inside. Like how she envied David and Mary Margaret—not because they had each other, but because they no longer had to wonder if they'd end up alone like she often did. Or how she secretly wondered if she had an anxiety disorder but was way too scared to see a doctor about it. Or dozens of other things that she found herself texting in the late hours of the night and more and more often, during the day.

The odd thing was that the only things they never talked about were their last names, and where they lived.

Until one day a week before.

Killian mentioned over Chinese food (pre-arranged dinner choice; they were watching  _Big Trouble in Little China_ together, and he had announced that it should be a themed dinner (the word “date” going totally unmentioned but man, was she thinking it). She mocked him that he was unable to hack the spiciness of kung pao chicken, he told her to stifle it and hit play) that he would be unavailable the following week due to business he had in Boston and without even thinking about it, she texted  **hey, I live in Boston** and then she dropped her chopsticks and a heap of lo mein in her lap because  _fuck_ . Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck, she did not mean to do that.

She put her styrofoam trough of food down on the table but kept her phone in her hand, horrified at what she'd done. There were no three thought-dots hovering there in her iMessage, no indication that he was responding to her thoughtless reveal.

Shit, what if he thought she was angling for a meet?

What if he wasn't really interested in meeting her?

God, what the fuck did she do?

She sat there, totally numb and staring at the little screen, practically screaming in her mind for him to answer. Or not answer. If he did, he'd probably quip it away, make some dumb joke about how he was scared his appearance would scare her into hiding or maybe even just ease out of the unease she'd created in their relationship with his usual quippiness. Maybe he'd ignore it entirely after he'd finished reeling. Maybe he'd...

_So let's meet for lunch, then. My treat._

Crap. Now it was her turn to not start typing, to make him wonder. Again, she stared at the screen on her phone, at those terrifying (-ly inviting) words.  _Let's meet._ Meet. Holy shit, she was considering meeting a stranger in real life.

The only reason Emma knew that she stared at her phone for three minutes, contemplating whether to actually have lunch with a stranger (so totally  _not_ a stranger) was because she saw that the last message had been read at 7:02 and it was now 7:05. Crap. What to do, what to do?

She texted. But not to Killian. To Elsa.

**hey are you around and awake**

_Yes. What's going on? What's wrong?_

**how do you always just know**

_I'm all-knowing. Everything okay?_

**no.**

Emma then texted a frenzy of words, spewing out how she had accidentally texted someone and that now, here she was, almost five months later, contemplating meeting the guy for lunch. This dawning sense of comprehension descended on her, that she was, actually, out of her mind. That she had grown so comfortable with the idea of just striking up a random friendship with a random person and was now entertaining thoughts of meeting him to see if maybe (hopefully) they hit it off in real life. She could fool herself all she wanted with Killian; she definitely had hope about him. She was crazy.

**i'm crazy, aren't i**

_Not at all. I think you should do it._

**MM and david are going to kill me**

_So, bring them along. You should be safe._

**like I couldn't take him**

_You don't know that, he could be a black belt or carry a gun. Oh wait, that's you._

**you're not helping, i'm genuinely freaking out here**

_Sorry. Wait. Is this the wrong number birthday guy you told me about?_

**yep**

_Oh. Wow. This is like, the longest relationship you've ever had. What if he's ugly or chews with his mouth open?_

**not helping, loser**

_It's my job as your friend to ask the important questions._

**still not helping**

_Okay, then. What if he's really hot and lets you pay for lunch?_

Emma paused at that. She sensed he'd let her pay, somehow just knew it. As for whether he was hot... she kind of figured he was. He was thoughtful and hilarious, and he didn't mind her more shrewish behavior. He told her stuff about himself and he was always, always there when she had a bad day. In a weird way he'd become important to her. Did it matter what he looked like? Wouldn't he automatically be attractive to her?

**does it really matter, elsa. don't be so superficial.**

She supposed that particularly prickly comment deserved the novel she got in response.

_Emma, these things are important. I'm not being superficial._

_You have to consider the fact that your body might not want to be on his body._

_I just don't want you to be disappointed if there's no body chemistry._

_You obviously get along well with the guy, but you have a tendency to freak out about stuff like this. I'm sorry, girl. It's true. I definitely think you should go, and you should keep an open mind. But don't get your own hopes up. Maybe he's just going to be one of those almost-dated people for you, and there's nothing wrong with that._

Emma found herself nodding along with Elsa's words. This is why they were friends; Mary Margaret made sure Emma owned up to her actions and reminded her that life was sometimes a good thing; David looked after her, bodily and spiritually, but it was Elsa who was always her cheerleader.

She was just about to text a quick thanks when Elsa got one more dig in.

_But Emma. DO NOT FUCK HIM. That makes it a one time thing and you'll end up regretting ending this relationship that way. OKAY? NO FUCKING. I am smart, I know what I'm talking about_

**thanks, asshole.**

She was chuckling, about to swipe out of her messages when  _fuck_ . She remembered. Oh God, he's been waiting this entire time! She touched over to their conversation and saw it: Read 7:02. It was now 7:21. Fuck fuck fuck  _crap_ .

**god, sorry. still there?**

The three thought-dots were immediate, and she felt this pang of apology fill her breast.

_Wow, I take it back. Let's not meet for lunch. Horrible idea. Terribly sorry. Dumb Killian, eat lunch on your own._

**no no no, i was just... talking to my fairy godmother.**

_Ah, Elsa. How is Norway?_

Emma beamed and squirmed. He really did know a lot about her, and the thought made her feel warm when only a second ago, she'd been twisted in agony.

**cold. listen, lunch sounds good.**

_Really?_

She wished she knew what he sounded like, because she was pretty sure that if he were speaking, she'd hear a smile in his voice and maybe a crinkle in his nose.

**yeah. let's just do it. let's have lunch.**

_Hey now, no need to be so forward._

**stop that. i'll figure out a place to eat and text you the details.**

_Looking forward to it, love. Now hit play, I'd forgotten how funny Kurt Russell can be._

“And that's that.” Emma finished telling David and Mary Margaret the very shortened version of why she decided to meet Killian Jones, former Lieutenant, honorably discharged, and current salvage diver for lunch at Red's Diner the following day, and she didn't want to hear anything about it.

“I'm coming with you.”

“David.”

“Nope. This is crazy. You can't just go off gallivanting with some guy you haven't even met. I'm at least driving you there.”

“David.”

“And sitting in the booth behind you.”

“David!”

“Bring your guns.”

“David, seriously.”

“I don't like him.”

“You don't know him!”

“Emma,” he sighed, putting his hand on her shoulder. “Neither do you.”

Well, he had her there. But that was kind of the point, wasn't it? She wanted to meet him. In a weird way, the fact that she was feeling so defensive of David's dislike of the situation made her want to do it all the more. She wanted to prove to him and the slightly-less-disapproving Mary Margaret, who was standing there looking more apprehensive at David's fatherly posturing than at Emma's crazy lunch date, that Killian was an okay guy. So she decided to make light of the situation in an effort to quell David's objections and maybe fortify her own self for the fact that in less than an hour, she'd be meeting Killian for the first time in person.

“I just wanted to tell you guys in case I disappear.”

“Don't even joke,” David warned, his face relaxing despite his obvious disapproval. “And text me the minute you get there. And when he gets there. And when you leave. And Emma—do  _not_ sleep with him.”

“Oh my God.” Both Emma and Mary Margaret said that, Mary Margaret looking amused and Emma feeling mortified.

As she left, the two of them (well, just Mary Margaret) wishing her luck, she smiled. They were sweet, really; some of the only people who cared about her well-being, looking out for her like always. She pulled out her phone.

**my friends think i'm crazy for meeting you**

_I think you're crazy, too. But let's meet anyway._

With that, Emma headed downtown to Red's.

She picked her favorite booth, one in a back corner by the kitchen with her back to the wall. She wanted a good view of the door and direct access to an easy exit.

She was fifteen minutes earlier than their agreed-upon time, and as she watched the minutes tick by on the overly large  _It's burger time!_ clock hanging over the door, apprehension settled in. She ordered a chocolate banana milkshake and sipped at it, knowing that her usual caffeine would just make her more jittery than she already was. She kept her eyes open for a British man in a leather jacket (what British men looked like, she wasn't sure, but if he ended up looking like Rowan Atkinson, she'd probably be unable to not laugh the entire time) and as the minute hand got closer and closer to twelve, her nerves stood more and more at attention.

“You still waiting?” Ruby, the owner, came up with her little order book in her hand, looking amused. Emma had ignored the way Ruby's eyebrows shot up into her hairline when Emma told her she was meeting someone, and even the kitchen staff kept looking at her and winking. She knew she was always there alone, but gees. Did everyone have to have an opinion on her love life? And when had she started referring to this thing with Killian as a love life?

“Yeah,” Emma said, resisting the urge to shove Ruby bodily to the side so she could keep her eyes trained on the door and the clock. Ruby must have seen the way her eyes were darting and half-turned, letting out a low whistle at whatever was there that Emma couldn't see.

“Whoa, honey. Didn't know you were into the bearded type.” Emma leaned out of the booth and saw a short, angry-looking lumberjack type with a beanie pulled low over his scowl. Oh God.

“Don't worry. Leroy's way too grumpy to have lunch with anyone,” Ruby said, laughing lightly as they watched him take a seat at the counter. “Oh, is that your tall drink of water, then?”

Emma looked up at Ruby, a little confused until she followed the woman's gaze to the door, where a man was just entering, shaking off the rain droplets that had fallen on his head.

He was wearing a leather jacket.

Oh God. The only word that popped into her mind was “dashing.” He'd laugh if she ever told him, give her an “I told you so.”

“Holy shit.”

Ruby was amused at that.

“Blind date?”

“Sort of.”

“Lucky girl.”

“Yeah.”

Ruby turned her back to Emma, effectively blocking her from view before calling out loudly, “Hey, honey. Over here.”

Emma froze in place. She knew she should hiss at the woman or swat her back or something, but she found she couldn't move.

Yeah, he was hot. Like... she couldn't even process the quick glimpse of him, he was so hot. She hoped that by the time Ruby finally fucking moved that he wouldn't be as hot as she remembered. Because no. Or maybe they wouldn't have that chemistry thing Elsa had been talking about. Maybe her body wouldn't want to touch his body.

“Excuse me, love. I'm looking for someone named—“

“Emma? Yeah, she's right here.” Ruby moved, and Emma looked up. Tried to ignore that his voice was nothing like she'd imagined, but way better. Soft and low and teasing, even though he hadn't said anything funny yet.

Their eyes met and she registered that he was grinning at her, sticking his hand out in a jaunty way. Her eyes narrowed at him as she stood and stuck her hand out in kind.

“Killian?”

“The very one.”

And as she took his hand in hers and just felt it—this mysterious, this-is-what-Elsa-had-been-talking-about feeling of sizzling sensation burning through her body—her mouth curled into a half-smile.

“Nice to finally meet you, Killian. I'm Emma.”

His answering smirk tracked with every smart-alec comment he'd ever made, every innuendo he'd ever typed. It didn't match the glow in his eyes, though; that was more genuine, and her bullshit-meter dropped down to zero as she stood there holding his hand, swaying slightly toward his body.

“It  _is_ nice to meet you, Emma. Finally.” He seemed to be swaying toward her as well, and when Ruby  _ahem_ -ed a little loudly they startled as one. His cheeks burned pink and she was pretty sure hers did, too. He swept his hand out and she sat down; as she settled into the booth once again, she reached for her phone to make good on her promise to her friends.

**he's here, you don't have to worry. he seems** , but she didn't finish the thought, just hit send.

_Don't sleep with him, Emma._

As she laughingly put her phone away, she finally looked up to see him staring at her, his eyebrows raised.

“Giving David the 'he's not a serial killer, probably' text?”

“Yeah, how did you know?”

“Emma,” he chided, putting an elbow on the tabletop and resting his chin in his palm. She noticed that he was delightfully scruffy and had to bite her lip against the rising giddiness threatening to burst out of her mouth as a laugh. “I don't have to have seen that expression on your face a hundred times to recognize fond exasperation from you. I know you, love,” he finished, and when he smiled softly, she just knew.

She pulled her phone out one more time, just to get a last dig in with David. That was it. She swore.

**i make no promises.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really hadn't planned on writing this, but i did. that same day. forgive the sloppiness, but i do like it kinda sloppy.

**yes, god**

Emma surreptitiously tried to shoot Elsa the text, but of course Killian saw it.

“They checking up on you, love?” he asked without lifting his gaze or even his mouth from his straw. The guy ordered a milkshake, a strawberry milkshake. He was actually on his second one. How... cute. He was cute. It was really annoying.

He ordered a double cheeseburger, and Emma cut in that he'd take it without onions and with extra pickles. She ordered a BLTA on a croissant (“mayonnaise on the side,” he said with a grin, and Ruby raised her eyebrows significantly at Emma but said nothing, merely smiling her big, red smile) and they shared a giant platter of fries and fried zucchini (“still not a vegetable, love” “totally a vegetable” “not when it's deep fried, you disgusting American”).

They talked about... everything. Again. It was exactly as though they'd been friends for the past almost-five months. Only now they were sitting across from each other, instead of from across a few states.

As it turned out, the salvage company he worked with was based in New York, but they sent him out all over. Apparently, he had made something of a name for himself as an excellent diver with an eye for treasure (a comment he turned into staring at her intently and intensely, the corner of his lip curling into a nasty sneer that flipped into laughter when he couldn't hold it in, not when she rolled her eyes into the top of her head and kept going with her neck until she bonked her head on the wall behind her). He'd been sent to Boston to see what he thought of a situation with a cargo ship that had taken on water just a half mile out of Boston Harbor.

“I won't bore you with the details, love,” he told her, snapping some of the rapidly dwindling fries in half before using their pointy ends to spear other fries. She watched his fingers as he played with his food, looked at the neatly trimmed nails and the way his fingertips pressed into the fries.

“See something you like?”

Oh God, totally busted. She was going to recover with a brilliant retort (that she did not have) when her phone buzzed. She'd turned it off after shooting that last text to David and had been ignoring the steady vibration alerts for an hour now, but she decided to use the good ole “oops, lemme check my phone” excuse to get out of the fact that he had just caught her staring at his damned fingers.

_How's the date going? Is he hot?_

**it's... good. i'll call you later.**

_Emma! Is he hot?_

_???_

_?????????_

**LATER**

_EMMA SWAN YOU TELL ME NOW_

_IS HE HOT_

**yes, god**

“Yeah, Elsa again.” Her phone kept buzzing, but she ignored it.

“Ah. I figured you weren't telling David that I was hot.”

“Oh my God. You saw that?”

“Although honestly,” he said, leaning back against the worn cushions of the booth. He draped both arms casually over the seat back and regarded her with a toothy grin. “I'd much rather you called me dashing.”

“I told you, that will never happen.” She shot him a wry grin before reaching for her milkshake, but quick as a flash, he leaned forward and snatched it from her grasp.

“Do you mind?” He asked. He looked her in the eye and held the rim of the glass right up to his mouth, waiting for her assent. Something about the way he waited for her to say yes got to her; his general behavior made him seem like that cocksure dickweed hot guy everyone meets at least once in life, the one who is used to women letting him get away with whatever he wanted, so he just assumed he was wanted everywhere. Yeah, Killian was definitely like that except for the last bit: he pushed and prodded and poked, but he never went into unforgivable territory, not without asking first. And he was sincere about it, she could see that.

Something about that really appealed to her, that he just  _knew_ she would never accept him barging in and making declarations and assumptions. That he asked first. It made it all the easier to be open with him. After all, he already knew every other fucking thing about her, right? Now they just had to learn the mechanics of being in each other's orbits.

That is, if they decided this was more than that one-time thing deal Elsa had mentioned.

So, Emma decided to give him that permission, but one-up it a little.

“You can use the straw,” she said, glad she didn't feel the pinking of her cheeks when he raised an eyebrow by way of response. With a slow, deliberate turn of his wrist, he turned the glass around so that the straw was just below his mouth. Keeping his eyes on her unwavering gaze, he snaked his tongue out until it caught the very tip of the straw, and then sucked it lightly between his lips.

_Jesus_ .

“Hmm. Not as good as strawberry, but the banana is a nice touch.” He took another deep pull from the straw, his cheeks hollowing out as he sucked out a banana piece. She suddenly had a bunch of thoughts about deep sea diving and how long he could go under without taking a breath and yeah. She wasn't seeing how she could  _not_ think dirty with him sitting across from her all pretty and smirking.

“You really should answer her.” Emma shook her head a little as his words registered, noticing how his eyes pointed toward her phone. She chuckled and picked it up, glad for the excuse to break the temporary lust spell she seemed to have been under.

_I knew it._

_I told you he sounded hot._

_Pic?_

_Emma_

_Emma_

_Emma_

_I want a pic_

_Emma, take a pic_

_You need one for your contacts anyway_

_Emma_

_Please_

_Do this for me_

_Emma_

_Do this for everyone_

_Take a picture of him_

_Come on, Emma_

_It's not nice to ignore_

_I don't care if he's so hot you forgot I existed_

_Or I should say I don't blame you_

_Or I won't blame you if I see him_

_Come on, Emma._

_Emma._

_Emma, I thought we were friends._

“Good lord, Elsa,” she laughed under her breath.

“What is it?” He passed her milkshake back and then picked up his own glass, silently offering it to her. Distracted, she nodded and took it from him, taking a slow sip and rolling her tongue around the taste.

“Mm,” she hummed, contemplating Elsa's messages and whether she'd be able to take a sly picture of him without his noticing. Doubtful.

“Mm,” she said again as she got a bit of real strawberry. She suppressed a grin as she did what he did, sucking hard on the straw to get the too-large piece up the straw. She didn't look up; she didn't have to. She could hear him breathing.

When the strawberry dislodged and popped into her mouth, some of the milkshake dribbled down her mouth, so she deliberately sucked her lip in to catch the sweetness.

Then she lifted her phone and clicked a picture of him. For Elsa.

Still not looking at him, she instead touched the thumbnail image and looked at what she'd captured. It was perfect. God, he looked like an ad for lady perfume or something, the male model who is stunned and lust-filled at the woman walking by and wafting her smell around. His eyes seemed darker in the picture, more intense, those expressive eyebrows he had framing his dark smolder perfectly. He looked like he was about to say something utterly filthy and suggestive, and she wondered if he was about to do just that.

She sent the picture. As soon as it finished sending, Elsa immediately responded.

_Oh my fuck. Emma, I take it back. Please fuck him._

She turned off her phone.

“Maybe I should get strawberry next time.”

“Next time.”

She finally looked up, seeing that he still had that dark, intense gaze fixed on her. That thrill of triumph surged through her, the one that was filled with the power of knowledge, the power a woman has when she knows exactly what she's doing to a man. It was a heady thing, and it made her bold.

“I should probably get back to work,” she said softly, biting the corner of her bottom lip and looking him straight in the eye. He nodded slowly, his eyes flicking between her own gaze and her mouth.

“Aye. As should I.”

“We should go.”

“We should.”

“I have work to do.”

“I as well.”

“I need to concentrate.”

“Right.”

“Want a ride?”

“Absolutely.”

He rushed to get up, and so did she. She knew what was about to happen, and she was suddenly in a rush to get there.

In no time they had coats and phones and tabs squared away. She walked with purpose toward the door, ignoring Ruby's slow clap as she passed by. She felt his hand at her back, barely there but there all the same.

“I'm parked around the corner,” she said somewhat breathlessly, she was in such a rush to get to her car and... well, she hadn't thought that far yet.

She could feel his hand press harder into her back, and she wasn't sure if it was his subconscious need to be a gentleman and therefore solicitous of her as a person or because he wanted to have some sort of touch contact with her, but she knew for damned sure that it was the latter for her. She almost stopped abruptly just so she could feel his body slam into hers, and that thought made her think of other ways his body could be slamming, so that just made her walk even faster. She yanked her keys out of her jacket pocket and had the VW one ready to go by the time they reached her Bug. They were approaching from the driver's side, so she stuck her hand out to jam the key into the lock when she felt his hand wrap around her wrist.

“Swan,” he said, his voice rough, almost breaking on her name. She turned to look at him and almost startled at how close he was.

“Jones,” she breathed, and before he could give her some smart ass comment or silently ask her assent for the kiss they both knew was coming, she stretched up on her toes to press her lips into his.

And then he did it, he did the thing where his body slammed into hers. Like her mouth on his mouth was the permission she'd intended it to be. Like he had been wanting to do it the whole fucking hour they'd been staring at each other, pretending to be interested in eating.

One day, she'd start writing in a journal and talk about how it actually  _was_ possible for two people to have chemistry by simply writing to each other, and that the chemistry simply amplified when they met in person.

That was the last thought she had before he opened his mouth and they began to taste each other.

Strawberries. She'd never be able to eat strawberries again. Not without thinking about this, about how he was a phenomenal fucking kisser, how she had never been kissed so thoroughly and so well, how every swipe of her tongue was met with his, at once gentle and questioning as it was demanding an answer. He took her face between his hands and she was delighted to feel that his palms were calloused but his fingers were not. Everything about him was a study in contrasts.

She brought her own hands up to pull his head closer, her fingers tickled by the soft ends of his thick hair. He moaned into her mouth when she dug her nails into the nape of his neck, and when he leaned his hips into hers, she felt herself being pressed up against the cold door of her car.

The heat of his body was another contrast when coupled with the metal of her car in winter, and she felt a shiver rush up her spine, which made her body wiggle. He moaned again and it was crazy, but she thought she could taste his moan, too. Seriously,  _never_ going to be able to eat strawberries again.

He ended the kiss with several quick nips at her bottom lip followed by drawing it into his mouth and in between his teeth, biting down with almost-gentle pressure as he drew his neck back slowly, pulling her lip through his bite. She gasped at the pinch when he pulled away completely, looking into his eyes that were shining with dark zeal.

“Well,” was all he said. His hand drifted down to her shoulder and his gaze followed the motion; he played with strands of her hair, tugging twice before looking at her with those eyes that asked permission. “Will you go out with me again?”

She nodded, not trusting that if she opened her mouth she wouldn't try to eat his face or put his fingers in her mouth or something equally mortifying.

“Emma?”

She shook her head, a small smile curling at her mouth.

“Cat got your tongue?”

She flicked her gaze back to his mouth. The asshole licked his lip. She narrowed her eyes at him and he grinned wickedly.

“Is the cat named Killian, because—“

But he didn't give her the chance to finish her sentence. He was back on her, grinning against her stumbling lips, giving loud, smacking kisses that were ridiculous and fucking wonderful. She laughed into his mouth and put her hands on his shoulders because they were so ridiculous that she was going to fall over laughing.

He stopped abruptly, stilling for a moment, and then he was serious once again, seriously kissing her. His hands dragged down and rested lightly on her hips; she leaned back, drawing him with her so she could use her car as a wall and when he followed, he once again pressed his entire body into hers. She could feel him everywhere, even through layers of clothing, and despite the two coats and sweaters and jeans, there he was, and her brain snapped. She had to have him. She  _had_ to. She would die if she couldn't touch his skin and have him touch her and she was suddenly skin hungry, desperate to feel him so she slid her hands down the collar of his coat and yanked at the zipper, sticking her hands in and feeling the soft cotton of his shirt.

She fingered the buttons as he continued to sweep his tongue lazily over hers, his hands squeezing her hips but never straying from that spot. She really, really wanted him to stray, to start feeling around and touching her, so she slid one of his buttons open so he'd get the message.

“Emma,” he rasped against her mouth, his lips seeming unable to not touch hers. “We are outside.”

“Mm.” Her finger slid under the placket of his shirt. She felt the crisp coarseness of chest hair and she wondered if he was like that  _everywhere_ .

“Love, I can't—“ But he broke off on a groan when she opened another button. “I have to get back to— _oh_ .” Her wandering fingers had found his nipple. He leaned back to fix her with a semblance of a disapproving glare, but then his eyes widened when she bit her lip and then pinched his nipple, hard. She watched carefully as his eyes widened before narrowing to mere slits. They stared at each other, her hand down his shirt, his hands still unmoving at her hips.

Then he squeezed really tightly, making her gasp in delight.

“Right. Your place or mine?”

“Mine. Closer.”

“Go. Now.”

“Yes.”

He pulled away from her abruptly, marching over to the other side of the car, his steps clipped and angry with the decisive clip of a man pushed to his limit.

Fuck, she couldn't  _wait_ .

Emma had no idea how she managed to drive home. She told herself not to look at him, that driving while horny was not a viable excuse if she got pulled over. She could feel him next to her, though, feel his warm body radiating waves of lust and arousal throughout the car, mingling with whatever she was sending off. She knew he was looking at her, that dark gaze she already felt like she'd been feeling for almost-five months pressing into her, deciding where to start when it was time to remove clothes and start touching her.

In no time they were back at her place. She practically slammed the brakes when she pulled into her spot. Then she was out of the car, locking it, realizing she'd forgotten her bag in the back and not giving a fuck. She rushed over, still not looking at him, hurrying up the walk and praying she had condoms or he had condoms because this was happening and it was happening  _now_ .

She waved her magnetic security card at the box in the entryway and the door began its slow crawl; she saw his arm shoot out and swing it open with the same impatience she felt coursing through her body. She stepped under his arm and rushed down the hall, turning left and stopping at her door. Focusing on the final task, she stuck her key in the lock and turned the knob.

And he was on her. His body pressed into her back, his breath hot on her neck as he reached around her arm to push the door open. He walked them in, his knees nudging behind her thighs as his hand came up to brush her hair off her shoulder.

Then they were inside and he slammed the door shut behind them. He put his mouth on her neck and she moaned, loudly, the sound filling the dark and cold apartment.

“Bedroom?” he murmured into her skin, the bristle on his chin tickling just before he scraped his teeth down the curve between neck and shoulder. She gasped; he sucked on her skin, hard, and she knew right then that this would not be gentle, and it would be good.

She pulled away, grinning at his muttered oath as she walked away from him. She slapped at the light switch in the short hallway that lead to her bedroom, shrugging out of her coat. She heard the slap of it as it hit the wall, a second slapping as his coat did the same. She stopped short and leaned down , lifting first one foot then the other to unzip her boots. After kicking them off, she reached behind and under her sweater to unclasp her bra.

“I wanted to do that,” he said, his voice low and dangerous as he came up behind her.

“Too bad,” she retorted, feeling strong and a little giddy as she continued into her bedroom.

Eying the layout for a second, she made for her nightstand and yanked it open, rummaging around until her fingers felt a crisp little foil packet. Saying a silent thank you to the gods of prophylaxis, she flipped it out onto the top of the table and turned to regard the man she had really only met today.

She kind of wished she hadn't done that, because he was standing there, looking at her with this arrogant expression on his face, the one that told her, “I know you want me.” It wasn't wrong.

Instead of saying anything, she decided to act. She reached down and grasped the hem of her sweater, lifting it over her head. When dropped the sweater and her arms, she leaned forward slightly and let her bra slide down.

The look on his face made everything, all of this, worth it. He was a little dazed and a lot aroused. Keeping that insanely intense eye contact, he reached up and began unbuttoning his shirt, slowly and with purpose in every movement, tilting his head this way and that with each button released.

When he was done he raised his eyebrow, an unsubtle “your turn” if she ever saw one. Keeping his gaze she swept her hair aside, slowly lowering her hands to her shoulders. She ran the backs of her fingers on one hand across the swell of her bare breasts, the hitch in his breath filling her with that sense of womanly power over a man.

She brought up her other hand and together they covered her breasts, cupping and feeling how full and curvy she was. She squeezed lightly, drawing her wrists back until just the tips of her fingers played at her areolas, pinching and twisting her nipples and making her own self gasp. His eyes darkened at that and he advanced on her, but she held out an admonishing finger, waggling it at him and tutting lightly.

She brought that finger to her mouth and kissed the tip of it before licking lightly. Then she traced a path from her mouth and down her neck, down between her breasts, across her belly, and landing just on the button of her jeans. She brought her other hand over and stuck her thumb just under the button, pushing it open. She lowered her zipper slowly, and all the while she was watching him as he watched her, his eyes drawn to her every movement as if connected by strings.

When her pants were lowered and she was standing there in her sensible, purple cotton underwear, she expected him to make a comment about it because that lopsided grin curled at his mouth. She stayed it by plunging her hand down the front and touching herself.

“Hmm,” she hummed thoughtfully.

“Are you very wet down there, Emma,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“Don't know. Haven't checked. Maybe.”

“Perhaps you should.”

“Perhaps  _you_ should.”

And really, what did she expect.

He was on her in an instant, his hands and mouth all over her, like he didn't know where, exactly, to start. And she felt the same way, torn between getting his fucking jeans off and ripping into his shirt to explore the hair that she'd just known was all over him, finding out just how low beneath the waistband the hair traveled. She wanted to know what he sounded like when she bit his collarbone, she wanted to know what he would do if she raked her nails down his sides. She wanted to see what he looked like when she took him into her mouth and sucked at the skin just below the tip of his cock, pulling it between her teeth and giving it a good nip.

But then he was lowering them to the bed and his hands were on her hips and then the edges of her underwear and then it was gone and her thighs were being pressed open and his fingers were there. He shuddered into her neck when he felt her, and the fucker started whispering filth into her ear. The words she knew were in him, the ones he'd been teasing her with for fucking months only dirty,  _way_ dirty, the way his breath and his words pressed into her flesh making these thrills of sensation pulse from her neck to the tips of breasts and on down, through her abdomen and ending to where his fingers were touching, sliding through and “you're so,  _so_ wet, darling, I've wondered how wet you would be for months. You drive me crazy; you've been driving me crazy for ages. I knew it would be this way. I knew you would let me in. I knew you would let me fuck you like you want to be fucked. Do you want me to fuck you, Emma? Do you?”

All she could do was nod.

“Am I talking too much,” he murmured into her skin, his lips wandering from her neck and down the hollow of her throat.

She shook her head.

“You once told me I talked too much.”

“No,” she whispered, wanting to writhe but sensing that if she did he would stop touching her because it just seemed like he'd be a tease in that way. She kept very, terribly still, but when he slipped one finger down lower and the filthy, decadent sound of it filled the moment of silence she moaned, loud and throaty, her pelvis chasing his hand as he pulled away.

She whimpered at the lack of touch and stilled her circling, restless hips; he immediately brought his hand back, patting her lightly, which made her gasp again.

“Open up your legs, love. Good.”

He was still patting her only this time the newly opened flesh was getting the sensation, too, and she was tossing her head side to side, her hair crinkling underneath her. It was too much, too many sensations at once. His mouth finally stopped talking, stopped murmuring filth into her skin in favor of drawing her nipple in and biting with gentle pressure from his teeth. At the same time he changed the pressure with his hand, and as it came down across her very wet flesh, it slapped lightly.

She gasped in surprise as her eyes popped open.

“Again.”

He slapped her, he fucking slapped her there.

“Again.”

He raised his head and met her eyes, this look of wonder taking over his entire face. The corner of his lips lifted his mouth into an open smirk as he slapped again, and again. Harder and more.

She could feel it, the sharp contact when his very controlled hand landed against her, his palm hitting her clit at the same time his fingers touched at the warm well between her legs. With each successive slap he curved his fingers more and more until every time he made contact they were slipping just inside, rubbing decidedly on the perfect spot. Emma could feel it, could feel the build up, and while she wanted him to just smack her pussy until she came, she also really wanted him inside her.

With a lazy, maniacal grin, she suddenly realized that they could do that later. This  _wouldn't_ be a one-time thing. She didn't give a fuck if he lived all the way in New York. She'd let him in, and now she was going to let him  _in_ .

“Condom. Killian, ah, Killian stop. Condom. Get it.” She panted, sitting up on her elbows and laughing at the slightly hypnotized glaze of his eyes. He seemed to be pretty fascinated by what she was letting him do to her, and boy, did he like it, if the enormous tenting of his pants was anything to go by.

“Take your fucking pants off.”

“Straight away, ma'am,” he said in an interesting military voice, and she filed that little bit of Killian knowledge away to use at a later date.

Suddenly giddy with the idea of future sex adventures with him (and she kind of loved that the thought of doing it more than once didn't make her freak out at all), she watched with held breath as he shucked out of his pants and boxers. Her eyes widened along with her grin when she saw his cock, thick and erect and bobbing as he make quick work of the condom.

And then he was ready, and there was a brief, infinitesimal pause as they stared at each other. There was nothing in the look; no “are you sure”s or “is this it”s or “last chance to back out”s or “will you regret me later”s. No. It was just Killian and just Emma, and while she knew she ought to slow her roll and maybe not fuck this guy two hours after meeting him, she also knew that nothing had ever felt so... comfortable. This thing with them, it was real. She knew it and he knew and what was the use in delaying things?

“Come here,” she said. So he did. He knelt on the mattress, his knees on either side of her legs as he lowered himself in a tight, controlled, planking maneuver that made the sinewy grace of his shoulders bulge out with a sort of pulsing restraint. She could feel him nudging around in between her legs so she opened them as much as she could, the crisp hairs of his thighs scratching at the smooth surface of hers.

“Emma,” he breathed, lowering his mouth to hers at the same time he pressed his hips down. As his lips touched hers she could feel the tip of his cock brush at her too-sensitive flesh, still swollen from the manhandling and slapping from earlier.

The thought alone made her moan; the sound she made seemed to make him jerk into action, literally, his cock sliding in easily. He groaned loudly, knocking her forehead with his. His eyes squeezed shut and she wanted to tell him to open them, to look at her so she could see what color they turned when he came but it was dark as fuck anyway and whatever, god, he was big, she felt very full, his cock practically an intrusion but then he was pounding away and she was letting him. He stopped a moment and she almost protested but then he shifted their legs around so she could lift up and she did, widening her thighs and letting him go to town. He did, he really, really did, resuming his pace, resuming the race they'd started and she was going to finish first, she was going to come, she was huffing and heaving, oh oh oh  _there_ .

“Yes,” she told him, her voice quiet, so she thought, but she was gasping out, how did it feel that way, how was it so good, how was he so  _good_ , so good, so good,  _God_ .

Her legs began to shake and she couldn't even feel them, she just registered they were shaking because she tried to hold on, tried to keep herself steady so he could keep fucking into her but she lost it, she lost control of her muscles and her breathing and her own damned voice because she kept calling out “yes” and “God” and “oh.” Oh.  _Oh_ . She finally stilled, this feeling of piercing light rushing from her legs and on up her body, roaring through and up and out her mouth in a series of muttered, praising words she couldn't make sense of because she was there, God, she was there.

And then he was there, and as she came down, her body aware that it had been tensed in that pause of coming, she knew she'd feel the ache in her thighs for days. Killian was slowing, his face falling from the tight, tense pleasure of a moment ago, the lines at his brow and eyes smoothing as he relaxed in and on her.

“Wow,” he whispered, lowering the side of his head to rest on her chest. “I mean, wow.”

“Yeah, really,” she laughed softly, raising her hand to run her fingers through his hair.

“I can't believe that just happened.”

“Can't you?” she asked, looking down at the top of his head. "Seemed inevitable to me."

“Well, I mean,” he said, turning to rest his chin in the space between her breasts. “I'd hoped, but never assumed. I figured you'd make me wait for a while.”

She was amused by that. “I thought about it, but eh. Why? Right?”

“Thank God for that,” he said, grinning. Then he made a face and squirmed a little. “I'm heavy. Sorry.” He rose to his elbows and gingerly removed himself from her, a shiver going through her body as he brushed against her still too-sensitive flesh. “Bathroom?”

“That way,” she pointed, raising up on her elbows again to watch him leave. She could see in the faint light coming from in between the blinds that he looked just as good from behind as he did from the front, and that made her smile.

As he walked away, she was amazed to realize that she didn't feel one twinge of regret. Not one. Nope. She'd do it again if given the chance. In fact, she was planning on doing it again later that day. After work. Oh, shit.

“ _Shit_ .” She sat up in a panic.

He came back into the room, looking rushed.

“Fuck, Emma. We're supposed to be working!”

“God, I know! I'm so sorry, oh my God. I'll drive you there, I'm sorry!”

“Emma,” he said, laughing as he jumped up, yanking his pants over his hips. “If you think I want you to apologize after what we just did, then maybe you don't know me like I thought you did.”

“Shut up, you know what I mean,” she said, actually blushing. His teasing made her blush, sure; not the stuff he'd just been doing to her. No,  _that_ was okay. Gees, what was wrong with her, honestly.

“Aye, I do,” he said, his voice at once serious, and when she brushed her hair from her face to see him better, she saw it. That look. The one she never thought she'd recognize but in that instant, recognize it she did. It was a look that told her absolutely everything about him, and the one thing that stood in the forefront was that he wasn't going anywhere. He might live in another state and she might have more baggage than an international airport, and maybe they'd only been in the same room together for a couple of hours, but he really did know her.

She smiled.

As they rushed down the hall, somewhat put together but both totally looking like they'd spent the entire afternoon in debauchery, Emma felt this sense of rightness, of homecoming. And she was already in her own damned house!

“Come on, let's go try to get some work done. I'll pick you up when you're off. We can do Tarzan and tacos.”

“Make it Shrek and onion rings, and you've got yourself a deal.” He grinned, opening the front door for her. As she walked through his eyes flicked over the inside of her apartment once before settling on her. She stretched up to kiss the scruff on his face, laughing at the look of delight he gave her.

“Come on, Mr. Bean. I need to text everyone that you haven't killed me.”

“Didn't I, though?” he said thoughtfully as they walked out into the bright, crisp sunshine. “I'll have to be a bit more diligent next time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come say hi to me on tumblr! i'm this-too-too-sullied-flesh. i'll be the mr. bean to your stitch.
> 
> thank you for reading.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i got a prompt and decided to write more for this universe. it's smutty.

"Ugh, are you kidding me?" Emma nearly threw her phone in disgust. Killian was _gone_. 

She had been in stakeout mode for like, three days, and her phone died. Her portable charger thingie was out of juice, and she wasn’t playing the “charging while the car is off” game because last time she did that, she killed the Bug’s battery and had to call David for a ride. At five a.m. He still brought it up every time she asked him to do anything for her, ever. She could ask him to deliver the eulogy at her funeral and he’d probably still bitch about the time he had to give her beloved Volkswagen a jump before God was awake. 

Anyway, her phone died, and she couldn’t charge it. Which was how she missed Killian’s three phone calls and seventeen texts. 

_Sorry, love. Got called to a salvage op off coast of Tarawa. Will call later._

Only she missed the call. All three of them, actually. 

Fuck. 

The rest of the texts were basic information about his flight number, where he was staying, when he was landing, and a couple of eloquent apologies about missing their six month anniversary, a detail she hadn’t even noticed. She did note with amusement, however, that he would _totally_ remember something sappy like that. 

**casual reminder that it is freaking cold and i was counting on having you as an extra blanket this weekend**

_I know, love. I promise, I will make it up to you. With my mouth._

**promises, promises**

That had been two months ago. And Skype sex is the _worst_. Not being able to touch him is the _worst_. 

"Hey," she breathed into the phone one of the few times they managed to have the same moment alone. He was like, seven hours behind, and work had been so busy for her that the times they actually managed to both be at computers at the same time with relative privacy, they were both exhausted. Almost too exhausted to do much more than give the details of their day and just kind of soak in the sight of each other’s faces. He was advising on some old World War II wreckage and while he was totally, adorably excited about it, he was also one horny guy, so invariably he tried to talk dirty. And it worked, but in that frustrated, "this isn’t you touching me and it blows" kind of way. Anyway, well. Emma missed him. Seeing him but not being able to poke him in the ribs or roll into his warm, sleepy male smell after he’d gotten up in the morning sucked, especially since he was on the other side of the world instead of just over in New York like usual. 

"So, it looks like I’m just about done here," he said. There was some shuffling on his end and she wondered if he was settling down on his bed. She glanced over at her clock and did the quick math: almost midnight for her, five p.m. for him. _Sigh_. He was probably thinking about dinner, and she was ready to pass out. 

"Yeah, I’ve heard that before," Emma grumbled, settling into bed. "A month ago." 

"No, really," he laughed. She could hear a faint crack in the sound, and she wondered if he was spending all of his time in the delicious tropical sunshine on white sandy beaches, losing his voice while barking out orders in that commanding way he had while like, being shirtless. 

"Uh huh," she said, burrowing her head to carve out a nest in her pillow and pulling the blankets up until they covered half her face. "Now, talk dirty to me." 

"Love, it’s best not torture yourself." 

"Shut up, Jones. Do it. And use lots of adjectives. Be prolific, please." 

He chuckled, the rasping timbre of his voice making her think of the crisp intensity of too-hot skin and the relief of stepping into warm water, the smell of coconut-scented cocoa butter sizzling on her skin. Talking to Killian was exactly like that moment when you scoop handfuls of sea water in your hands and let the coolness splash on your shoulders, dribbling down your chest and belly until you immerse yourself fully in the water. 

"Today, it was about eighty-one degrees. I saw this tiny little fish darting around in the water, like he’d lost his friends. Then a wave came along and took him away. I forgot to put sunscreen on after lunch, and my shoulders took the brunt of it. I’ll probably wake up a little red in the morning, but I still have that excellent aloe Mary Margaret sent me." 

"Mm. And the water?" 

"Not too warm, but pleasant to stand in." 

"You know what I want, Jones," she purred, trying not to laugh. 

"Indeed, Swan," he said, dropping his voice low and intimate. "It’s the color of a peacock until you get to diving depth, then it’s more like sapphires. When I step out of the water onto the pure white of the beach, it makes me think of your skin." Emma sighed happily, trying to picture it exactly as he described. 

"When I get back, I’m going to buy a sapphire necklace that hangs just between your breasts. As you lie on my bed, utterly naked and quivering with arousal, I’m going to run a single peacock feather down the length of your body, just so I can tell you that standing in the middle of paradise has nothing on the perfection of being with you." 

"I hope I’m under a blanket when you tell me all of this, because it’s fucking cold here in Not Paradise." 

"Fucking…" he muttered, and it was all Emma could do not to laugh. "You are the least romantic woman I’ve ever had the displeasure of attempting to seduce." 

"Words are pretty, Jones," she said, trying not to outright cackle. "Actions are better." 

"I told you, I’m nearly done here." 

"Uh huh."  


"You’ll see." 

"Sure." 

"Go to sleep, Swan. I know it’s late." 

"Good night, Jones. Miss you like hell." 

"As do I," he whispered, and she could hear it in his voice—he _meant_ it. She smiled, big and wide. She couldn’t help it. He made her happy. 

Also horny. 

The thing was, she didn’t really mean to ruin the phone sex moment or anything, it’s just… she wasn’t great at reciprocating, and she missed him and wanted him back on her side of the world. When he was back at his place in New York it was bad enough; sometimes she wanted to beg him to move to Boston, but boy was she not ready for that conversation yet. So, she made do with their separate lives while aggressively wishing he lived closer. When he to go on work trips that took him really far away, it sucked, but this was the worst it had ever been. He was too far away, dammit. She wanted him there, in Boston. Maybe all the time. 

With that thought making her belly flop, Emma made sure her alarm was set before clicking her phone off and then she went to sleep. 

She was awakened a few hours later. Which sucked, because she was in the middle of a really great dream where she and Killian were in Hawaii and swimming off the Na Pali Coast. He’d told her all about it, how one time when he was still in the navy and he had a couple days’ leave, he and the guys went over to Kauai and took a tour on a Lightning Catamaran. They’d made it all the way down to the secret beach you can only access by swimming, and once there they’d eaten turkey sandwiches and fresh pineapple picked that very morning by the owner of the boat’s wife. In the dream she and Killian were swimming side by side and he kept diving deep below the water and surprising her by grabbing at her ankle and making her shriek. It was such a warm, lovely feeling; she had that dream a lot whenever he was gone. 

Just when she was getting to the part where he was coming up behind her and wrapping his arms under hers, his face nuzzling into her neck, she started coming out of the dream. 

_Dammit, no_ , her sleep-addled mind yelled. “Emma,” dream Killian whispered, his wet lips brushing along under her ear. 

"No," she moaned, and she wasn’t sure if it was her dream self or her almost-waking self. 

"Yes. I’m going to touch you now, love." She sighed. Dream Killian was so good to her. The press of his lips against her neck nearly made her curl her toes with longing. She pressed her ass back and felt the corresponding shift of his hips. His hand drifted down her arm, causing a burst of goose bumps to bloom across her flesh despite the warmth of the water. His palm stopped at her hip, his thumb teasing the knot of her bikini tie. 

Emma could feel the filtering awareness that was the disappointment of waking from the best dream in the universe, and she fought to stay in it, struggling a little. She felt the soft fluff of one of her blankets against her shoulder. The annoyance that she really _was_ waking up just made her wake up even more. 

"Fuck," she muttered, desperate to hold on to Dream Killian and the way he was just starting to tease his fingers under the edges of her bikini. 

"Maybe if you’re very, terribly lucky," he said. 

Her eyes popped open. 

"Holy shit," she croaked. Not Dream Killian at all, then. 

"Indeed," he murmured in her ear. He nuzzled into her neck and the tip of his nose was startlingly cold, but the rest of him seemed warm enough. Her now-waking mind was starting to register that he really was fucking there, in bed with her. 

"How—" 

"Hush, sleeping beauty. Let me take care of you. I made a promise, after all." There was a smile in his voice and that made her lips curl up, too. All right, then. Who was she to question such a gift when it just showed up in her bed in the dead of night? 

She caught a whiff of salt and cocoa butter before he pulled away. She sighed happily, turning from her side so that she lay flat. She opened her eyes and in the dark of her bedroom, she could barely make out the Killian-shaped shadow that was next to her, now sitting up and reaching behind his head to pull his shirt off. He leaned down and covered her mouth wish his; she nearly cried, she was so damned happy to have him back. 

"This better not be a dream," she mumbled once he pulled away. 

"You have a vivid imagination if it is," he told her before pulling the blanket over his head. 

And oh. 

Without preamble, without his usual paying attention to detail, he just went for it. He didn’t spend any time up top; he simply covered her body with his and started scooting down, pressing his face here and there but not removing her (his) beater. She put her hands on the top of his head, not really pushing but wanting to, because she knew this maneuver. She was still half asleep, but that warm, sunny sensation she’d been having in her dream was still with her and now _he_ was with her and just. Yeah. 

"Killian," she sighed happily. 

"Emma," he mumbled into her belly. 

Then he was pulling her flannel pajama bottoms down. 

She had like a zillion blankets piled on her, but it was suddenly way too warm, so she flipped a bunch of them off until there was just the warm flannel sheet, but she suspected even that would go in a minute. Killian’s breath was hot on her skin as he hovered over her deep under the covers. He nuzzled the skin on her thighs and she just _knew_ he was going to have a comment for her later on the fact that she’d totally let herself go on shaving, but then he was pressing his palms between her legs and pushing them apart. She relaxed and shifted down a little, impatiently shoving her pillow out from under her head until she was lying completely flat on the bed. 

He rubbed his face against one thigh, the soft stubble on his jaw tickling her sensitive skin. He turned in a little and bit down just this side of rough, his teeth digging into her skin and making her gasp. She felt a corresponding pulse of nerves deep down in her pelvis and grinned. God, she’d missed his touch. 

His mouth was hot and wet and against her inner thigh; his hand pressed into the other until she was dropping both of her legs, completely butterflied and exposed despite the fact that there was a sheet covering her and him. 

He lifted away from her and she was about to lift her pelvis when she felt him press his entire face right against her. He kissed her fully, right on the best of places to kiss a girl. With his lips pressed against her he stayed still, but she could feel this pressure begin as he started slowly sucking on her flesh, the pressure increasing until she was ready to buck right off the mattress and against his face. Then there was a rasp of hard, piercing pressure as he drew her in and she felt the crinkle of his teeth biting her and _fuck_ , “fuck,” fuck fuck fuck. His tongue flicked, all sensation in that one point of contact, the luscious tickle and burn, her hips doing the bucking thing and it was hot, so hot, _too_ hot; her hands scrambled to move the sheet because she wanted to see, she wanted to see him and make sure this wasn’t some fucking dream. 

"Killian," she gasped, ripping the sheet away. She could just barely make out the outline of his dark head between her legs, unmoving and still as the pressure continued to mount. Then he released her all at once, his head snapping up with a sharp jerk. He leaned down and kissed her thigh; his lips felt sloppy and wet. 

"Hello," he chuckled, his voice dark and dirty. 

"Glad you’re back. Get to work." 

"Aye, aye," he said, then his head went back down. His arms reached under her ass and she lifted her pelvis so he could wrap them up and over her hips, his palms skating along the planes of her belly until they met just above where he was doing his work. She felt the pleasant tickle of the roughness of his thumbs sliding down to her slick flesh; he used them to press into her and then lifted up slightly, parting her until she was very, very exposed. He leaned down and exhaled, heavy and deep, his lips barely brushing against her until she pressed back and against his mouth. 

He chuckled darkly and then he was back, his lips wrapping around her clit, his tongue pressing on it, at first flat and broad and barely moving until she was doing the moving but then he started a slow slide, increasing speed and pressure until she was all but rubbing herself against his whole fucking face. 

She pressed her arms into the mattress on either side of her body, leveraging herself so she could lift up and up and into him. Filthy moans started deep in his throat, moans and groans and sounds of absolute contentment as he continued licking away at her flesh. The slow dance quickly devolved into a sloppy balancing act as she focused on the feeling, on the fact that he was there and he was touching her and his mouth was oh, God. _God_. 

"There," she told him. Right there. _God_. She shifted a little, the angle off-kilter and utterly delicious. 

"Ah," she gasped, her pelvis pulsing and pressing into the angle. She knew she was getting wetter and he was making her wetter with his mouth as it opened wider, his tongue sweeping broad and insistent and focused on the spot. The spot. There, right there. 

And then there was a hitch, that brief, infinitesimal moment where she knew she couldn’t bear it, where she knew that it was too much, but he didn’t stop and his tongue didn’t stop and she lost it, her body went limp but no, it was all tense, it was all good, it was so good and her leg jerked and she was lifting higher and higher off the bed and oh, oh, oh. 

"Yes," she gasped. _Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t ever stop._

And the white bright light flashed behind her eyes and she was there and he was there, they were there and she was falling, falling and collapsing. 

Her hips were rolling as she came down, rolling into his face because it was still there, the feeling, but it was coming down as she relaxed and she could feel a new one beginning somewhere deep inside where she was clenching tightly and letting go, clenching and relaxing, and even as she settled she felt herself still buzzing, still on that high where he was licking at her slowly. He kissed her lightly, his lips moving along her flesh in a lazy kind of way. 

He finally broke away from her and she could feel the way his breath was heavy, could hear the pant and the need. His grip on her relaxed and she dropped to the bed completely, utterly sated yet still needing more. 

He dropped a kiss on her thigh before lifting to his elbows. He chuckled then, the sound somehow darker and dirtier than it had been before. She could barely make out the shape of him in the dark, and she almost wanted to turn on the light just so she could see the filthy promise in his eyes. 

"Welcome back," she said, a dry laugh leaving her mouth when she felt the vibration of his laugh rumble across and through her body. 

He rose to his knees and she felt a slight chill then. When he moved off of her legs and sat at the edge of the bed before standing, she started to protest. Then he turned around and reached for the sheet before dropping it across her body. 

Emma rose to her elbows and called out to him in the dark. “Hey, where the hell do you think you’re going? We’re not done yet, not by a long shot.” 

"I know, love. Hold on a sec." He walked over to a chair she kept by the door and she heard some rustling before he was back at her side. He leaned down and kissed her then, one of those dirty kisses she loved where his beard was all wet with her and his mouth was everywhere. He lifted away and then his hand was brushing the sheet aside. 

"Take this off, then," he whispered in the dark. He was lifting the hem of her (his) shirt and she rose hastily to take the thing off. 

"Lie back down," he said. He sat down and leaned over to the nightstand. "Shade your eyes, love." She put her hand over her face and heard the click of the bedside lamp being turned on. She waited until her eyes adjusted, knowing the brightness would suck but suddenly impatient to see his face, to see the way his passion (love) for her burned bright and blue in his eyes. Then she felt a cold, heavy thing land square between her breasts. 

Startled, she moved her hand away and looked down. She ignored how fucking bright it was when she registered what it was. There was a sapphire pendant lying right there between the girls. 

A thousand thoughts and feelings landed on her chest along with that sapphire, but she decided to just focus on the best one: Killian, there. With her. 

"You got a peacock feather, too?" 

He grinned and brought his hand up, a long tail feather from a peacock, indeed, pinched between his thumb and forefinger. 

"Indeed, I do." 

"Talk me through it, then. And be prolific, Jones." 

"Aye, aye, Captain." 

**Author's Note:**

> this was posted on tumblr and i kind of got convinced to write a dirty sequel, so. if you want to keep this as a sweet meet for captain swan, stop reading now. if smut is your thing, then tarry no longer, gentle reader. it's in the next chapter. and once again, happy birthday, darling!


End file.
